Renitent
by TheEtiolatedCrow
Summary: Resistance is complicated; upheaval, though, is certain - a mage's story about the Gallows, resistance and the Underground Railroad.  OC's POV, but what would a story like this be without a little bit of DA2's Anders, M for themes
1. Harrowing

_A/N: So this came about from dialogue in the Dissent quest of DA2, where Anders mentions he's been helping out an underground resistance; it was intriguing...and very, very vague...so, cue attempt at writing! Also, apologies for the corny first sentence, I couldn't help myself_

_Spoilers...yes, probably some. Mostly going-ons at the Gallows throughout DA2 and Anders quest related stuff for Act I, II & III_

_As always, the world is Bioware's creation;_ _I'm just playfully romping through _

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><p>Her Harrowing had been…well, harrowing. Brineigh quickly wiped a salty tear from her eye while pulling her robes down over her knees with her free hand. She hunched forward and brought her raised wrist down, wrapping her arms tightly about her ankles, clasping her fingers together to stop the digits from shaking. The demon's offer had been tempting of course. The creature knew her innate desires, her weaknesses, her inner turmoil caused by the ghostly visage remembered in her dreams, remotely recognized as <em>mother<em>. The chance to know her history, to know her real name, it had been a tantalizing idea. But one she could and had, lived without.

A second tear coursed down Brineigh's cheek, hastily swept away by a swift dart of her tongue. The saline flavour revived the taste of copper in her mouth, the tang of her own blood. The memories of a sanguine spittle meshed with the still-damp touch of her collar, the physical sensations triggering a mental panic she wished she could will away. She squeezed her legs firm against her chest, the pressure helping to control her terror. The past hours of her ordeal had been a torment, a deluge of passionate wants tempered only by a remote discipline, a self-control at odds with her usual impetuous nature; but the worst of had come after she had woken, the desire demon abandoned in its nightmarish realm.

She had returned from the domain of dreams, the blurred ambiguity of the Fade, to the stark reality of the Harrowing Chamber, biting steel pressed tentatively against her throat, angry voices pounding at her ears. Her sharp intake of breath had provoked an immediate response; the bitter metal had nicked into her ebony skin, its razor edge easily piercing the delicate flesh below her chin. Panic had overtaken her through her muddled haze of waking, the pain had been overwhelming; she had vaguely sensed the blood stream from her throat, freely flowing into the collar of her robes, marring the amethyst fabric. Her breath had become a palpable gurgle; the cloying, thick smell of blood had been overpowering as her hands had clawed at her neck, an instinctive attempt to preserve life.

Through her dimming reality, Brineigh had registered a barking shout. The blade had been hastily retracted from her darkening vision, then he was at her side, blue tendrils of healing magic stemming the blood, closing the gouge, roaring at the woman above him, "Meredith, this time it goes to far!"

Brineigh squeezed her eyes shut, her body quaking with a muted shudder, remembering the sound of the clanking footsteps that had rounded her from behind, the rough, metallic grasp that had wrenched her off her knees the moment the wound at her throat had sealed. The memory of piercing, inquisitorial blue eyes meeting her own stormy grey irises was imprinted on the inside of her eyelids.

"She has survived Orsino."

Even hours later, the cool words of the Knight-Commander were remembered with a shiver.

The scrutinizing gaze had not held her in thrall for long; the Knight-Commander had quickly released her gauntleted hold, letting Brineigh slump deflated to the floor, addressing the elf still kneeling beside the injured mage with the same distant, icy tone, "I did not expect her to resist the demon's temptation. You were correct to press for her Harrowing."

Brineigh remembered the whirlwind of overwhelmed senses pushing her into shock, the blood unconsciously swallowed, coughed up in a foamy spittle on the stone floor. It had been her distressed state, she decided, hands still pulling at her ankles, that had made her so slow to become fully aware of her situation. But truly, what apprentice would ever believe that their helmeted guardians would turn on them in their moment of triumph and success?

The memory of a glacial, searching look, seeking out her gaze for a second time, intruded Brineigh's dark thoughts. The armoured woman's cold dialogue, directed towards the elf while searching Brineigh's face for some, any signs of physical corruption, had continued its measured cadence, attempting to regain control of the chaotic situation with a harsh, disinterested assessment.

"Ser Nickoll's action may have been hasty, but his instincts were good. We must always be vigilant for signs of blood magic and demons, especially in a newly Harrowed mage."

The elf had sighed, his wrath evident in his strained features, "We will talk of this later Knight-Commander. For now it is enough that she survived the overzealous fervour of your Templar." Warm eyes had turned to Brineigh, a hand extended to help her trembling form from the floor. "Congratulations, my dear. You have survived your Harrowing. You are now officially a mage, our newest sister in the Circle of Magi."

Brineigh recalled how her eyes had darted around, sweeping past the kindly persona of the First Enchanter, her shock abated sufficiently to register the figures surrounding her. Knight-Commander Meredith had stood beside the font of lyrium Brineigh had used to consciously enter the Fade, her arms folded rigidly across her chest, her closed, stoic expression unreadable, the golden circlet settled atop of her head, muted in the dim light. Three Templars had perched behind her; swords unsheathed, shields at the ready, bucket-shaped helmets preserving their anonymity. A fourth Templar had hovered beside Brineigh, helm secured over the eyes but military carriage off-kilter, balanced nervously, almost awkwardly, favouring a single foot.

Brineigh had instantly recognized the limped stance of Ser Nickoll, a lively man who looked only slightly older than herself, lately inducted into the Templar Order. She had regularly passed him in the hallways of the Gallows since his recruitment, his lilted conversation habitually engaged with the other Templar novices in comradely banter, a steady flow of talk that had not seemed to cease after he had taken his vows. She gripped her fingers tighter together, squeezing at the knuckles, wedging her digits between the bones. She remembered how her hand had flown to her throat, her first cognisant recognition of the past moments. Ser Nickoll's blade had dripped with her blood.

The First Enchanter had snatched her raised hand in his, forcing her to turn from the gruesome sight, obliging her to meet his eyes. "Go. Rest." His kindly eyes had turned hard as he eyed Ser Nickoll before turning back to Brineigh, "You will be tired after this ordeal. Come and see me tomorrow, after you've slept and recovered. We will have much to talk about, but that is for later. We will send your phylactery to the Kirkwall Chantry immediately."

A muttered 'thank you' was all that could be formed by her stiff lips; dazed shock had rapidly turned into frighten panic. With a final glance around the cold, stone room, Brineigh had fled.

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><p>Brineigh had run to the familiar, a small dark cell in the rooms beneath the main floors of the Gallows, part of the complex of deep cellars and dungeons used long ago to confine the slaves of the Tevinter Imperium. She came here often. Tumultuous events, incidents frequently created by her own emotional nature, usually found her seeking solitude either in the depths of the Circle Tower or a high window in a quiet room, overlooking the deep brine below the citadel. She rocked back and forth, drawing her knees closer to her chest, disengaging her hands from her ankles to clutch at the hem of her robes. Escape and isolation was a balm to her habitually passionate personality, the comfort of silence rivalled only by her love of the calming and hypnotic sounds of the sea.<p>

She had found this room early in her youth. A harsh exchange with a fellow apprentice had made her instinctively dart into the unknown, an unremarkable event in itself, but her luck had led her to this cell. The small room would be considered commonplace by the casual observer; but through the walls, Brineigh could feel the roll of the ocean against the foundations of the Tower during a squall, she could inhale the smell of rotting seaweed and scent of the brackish water from the docks outside through a small grate near the ceiling. The far wall was always slightly damp, crusted white with saline deposits, the mineral leaching through the red sandstone of the room, located as it was below the grey stone floors of the Gallows. For Brineigh, this cell was close as she could get to the ocean - aquatic exercise for mages had been banned years ago after a report from Ferelden reached the Knight-Commander, detailing the failed escape attempt by an apprentice trying to swim from the Circle Tower there – and there were few things as meditative to her churning thoughts as the regularity of the swells of the sea, the sent of brackish air, or the play of light on the surface of the water.

Brineigh knew she should have returned to her dormitory to recover from her ordeal, but the familiar faces she was sure to find there would be unwelcome, unable to provide a salve for her rolling thoughts. Instead she had needed the solitude this chamber could provide, fleeing as far as she could from Ser Nickoll and his blade and the demons and reality of the cold, stone chamber far above her.

Tears continued to fall despite her best efforts to quell them. Her nose ran. She spared the thought that the emotive display was not a particularly distinguishing transition from apprentice to mage, from youth to adult. Not that anyone knew her true age, few mages did. The Harrowing simply made a convenient marker for many, their stories similar to her own - abandoned at the docks below the Gallows when she was little more than a small child, found by the Templars, small lightning bolts curling from her fingertips. It had taken her a long time to gather even this much information about her history from the helmeted guardians.

Her turbulent thoughts swelled, returning again to what had happened when she had left the Fade. The razor-sharp blade was still a ghost at her throat; the raised voices that had assaulted her ears were still unintelligible. The First Enchanter and Knight-Commander had obviously been clashing over her fate, the sword at her throat evidently placed there to end her life should she lose herself to a demon in the realm of dreams, her physical body turning into an abomination in the mortal world.

A stilted sigh broke her lips, accompanied by violent shiver. Her mind had involuntarily returned to the horror of Ser Nickoll and his bloody blade.

For as long as Brineigh could remember she had looked upon her Templar guardians as stern, yet paternal custodians, their persistent sentry accepted as necessary to protect others from mages and mages from themselves. She was not ignorant to the dangers of magic gone awry; she had witnessed a fellow turn into an abomination when they were both little more than children. The senior mages had eventually decided the poor girl had probably been lured by a promise of home, a place she had repeatedly called for in her fitful dreams, often waking others in their shared dormitory.

Brineigh knew the necessity for Templars; she was cognisant of their mission, she had accepted it. She knew the men and women who served as such had had distinctive faces, names and personalities, but their place in the Order had erased their individuality to her; she saw them as an entity, a single being, infallible in their defining purpose to _protect_.

But Sir Nickoll's action had not been the collective, unerring will of a group, safeguarding the lives of others. It had been the hasty, unthinking deed of a single man. As much as she wished to, Brineigh could not begrudge him; his rash, automatic act had been preformed out of instinct, duty, not personal malice. Yet, his action had splintered her notions of Templar righteousness, her belief in the overarching justice of the institution which governed her life. He was a fallible, singular man; his grave mistake had opened her eyes. Brineigh could no longer regard the Templars as individual extensions of a singular conscious; they were only a collection of men and women, as mortal and flawed as any other.

Hushed voices interrupted her reverie, breaking her dark thoughts and reviving her to her immediate surroundings. She quickly dispelled the small, bright wisp she had enchanted into being to light the black room and clapped both hands over her mouth, attempting to muffle the hitched breaths that had accompanied her tearful outbreak.

"Hurry Peigen, they should be here any moment now. We're late." Armoured footsteps moved rapidly towards Brineigh in the corridor outside as she tucked herself tightly into a corner of the room.

A second voice, much rougher than the first, responded, "Quietly Elsney, the last thing we need is them to bugger off right now! Maker, my fingers have been trembling something fierce of late! Blighted Knight-Commander and her blighted dwarf-dust regulations."

The men swept past Brineigh, the light from their torch illuminating the doorway. _Templars_, Brineigh identified, breathing softly, not moving an inch from the corner where she had entrenched herself. She had no desire to be discovered outside of the workaday quarters of the Gallows and the desperation in the second man's voice, along with the deduction that they were in the depths of the Tower to secure lyrium, the mineral magic-users used to enter the Fade and Templars exploited to enhance their effectiveness in dispelling incantations, spoke to a nefarious purpose.

_They're getting lyrium from outside the Tower, they're smuggling it in!_ The thought provoked a sudden exhilarated inquisitiveness in her. The upper echelons of the Chantry controlled the lyrium supply, not only in Kirkwall, but across most of Thedas. By controlling the lyrium trade, the Chantry effectively controlled the Templars, many of whom became addicted to the mineral after prolonged consumption.

She had seen addicted men before. Ser Samson, the man who had inadvertently given Brineigh her name after dragging his 'briny, salty lass' reluctantly from the sea outside the Gallows time and again in her childhood, had been such a man. His abrupt departure from the Templar order as she had become a teen had been a trial for her; she had missed his kind smiles, replaced as they were by stern, faceless and helmeted oppressors who had few words and less interest for a magically-gifted youth.

Ser Samson had returned to the Gallows shortly after his exodus. Brineigh had observed the man from her dormitory window overlooking the courtyard and had run to meet him, expecting him to return to the Templars. The man had not recognized her through his haze of trembling and had passed through the gated threshold without a second look. His hands had shook, his body had rocked; a sympathetic captain had led the man to the Templar barracks. It had taken Brineigh a long time to come to terms with what had become of the man, even longer to understand his addiction. In the end, he had not returned to the Gallows.

The muffled voices and clanging steps of the Templars receded and finally stopped. Brineigh's rampant curiosity pushed aside the thoughts of the past few hours and encouraged her silent shuffle towards the door, gingerly placing her feet as soundlessly as she could, the footfalls muffled by the thick soles of her silver-threaded boots. Exercising caution, she discretely poked her head out the doorway and observed a flickering light accompanying the sound of low voices emerging from a second entry, positioned further along the corridor. Hushed whispers followed a muted jangle of coins; heavy armoured footsteps began to retrace their progress through the corridor outside Brineigh's refuge.

Brineigh quickly withdrew from the doorframe and pressed herself hard into the wall beside the entry, the rough, gritty sandstone of the walls instantly biting through her thin robes. She ignored the coarse feel of the rock as she stilled her body, not allowing herself to move, to breathe, as the clanking footsteps retreated up a distant stairwell. She held her body static for long minutes after the footfalls faded, taking shallow breathes through her stuffy, running nose as quietly as she dared.

It took time for Brineigh to convince herself that it was safe to move. When she finally detached herself from the wall, her body slumped to the floor, utterly released of its latent tension, her boneless frame collapsing in a heap. A swift snoop, made from the ground around the corner of the door, confirmed what she instinctively knew, the passageway outside was now completely dark, the light from the second doorway had been removed with the Templars. She pulled her head back and waited.

It was over half an hour before Brineigh had the courage to recast her wisp spell, the white light projecting her flickering silhouette against the walls. She pulled her hands from her face slowly, letting the fingertips drag downwards to the bottom of her jaw. The past half hour had given her time to muse the best course of action, time for her to decide what to do. There was the correct choice of course, the option which involved huffing quickly up the stairs, stealthing through hallways and collapsing in her dormitory, forgetting about the Templars, the lyrium smuggling, the possible way _out_. She was tired enough to give the option a thought.

But, Brineigh was nothing if not impulsive. The self-control imposed when she practiced magic, the discipline she had maintained during her Harrowing hours before, had no place in her reality. The lures of the physical realm were not the dangerous temptations of the Fade. Her decision had been made the instant the Templars had ascended stairs. The lucky chance for possible freedom, to escape the Gallows and the recent, brutal memories, however briefly, was too much of a temptation. Brineigh rose quietly to her feet and cautiously tramped to the door.

Her time since the Templar's departure had been chiefly spent rationalizing whether her presence in the Gallows, at least for a short time, was likely to be overlooked. She had no intension of leaving for more than a brief excursion; she had no desire to be branded and hunted down as an apostate the very day she was accepted into the Circle of Magi. Brineigh's newly formed notions of the blurred borders of her world as a mage did not extend to the black and white lens with which she knew Templars viewed magic-users who escaped. The idea that she would be hunted, the thought that steel could once again sliced through her neck, terrified her.

But her Harrowing had excused her from tutorials for the day. Her former companions, other apprentices in the dormitories, would be told of her trial and simply assume she had moved to her new quarters with the other Harrowed mages when she failed to appear at curfew. The First Enchanter had asked her to see him the next day rather than immediately and her phylactery was in transit, unlikely to be located or used quickly should someone notice her absence. Most would assume that it was more likely that Brineigh would be found in a dark corner of the Gallows, much as she was doing at the current moment.

She firmed her resolve; it was a risk attempting this brief escape but a similar opportunity would be unlikely to present itself again. She needed this. She raised a hand to her throat, her thumb briefly brushing the lip of her collar, still damp with her own blood. Her cell in the Gallows had not given her the respite from her turbulent thoughts she had hoped it would, she needed to find peace and calm to settle her mind; the tranquility, she decided wryly, attempting to justify her curiosity, that could only brought on by a cool draught of a sea breeze against her skin.

But if she was honest with herself, the need stemmed from more than simple interest in the world beyond her limited borders. For the first time, her home seemed repressive, unfair, the memories of the past hours turning the Circle Tower into the prison others claimed it to be. She needed to get _out_.

The silent corridor loomed before her under the light of the spell wisp. Her passage to freedom was on her left; she approached the entry with caution, stealthily poking her head inside the door before moving her body. Much to her surprise, the room was empty, devoid of the doors or gaping holes in the floor she had expected to find, the only items within being smashed barrels and disintegrating crates. Had she made a mistake? _No, this is the right entrance,_ she concluded as she retraced her steps from her cell with her eyes. _Is there no way out after all?_ Brineigh waved her hand at the wisp beside her, the ball of light increased its flickering luminosity; if there was a way out, she was determined to find it.

It took Brineigh over an hour to find the trapdoor concealed within the far wall and several more minutes to find the hidden catch to open it. It took another half an hour of tense deliberation to disarm the trap behind the catch, a poisonous spike stinking of putrid venom. Finally the trap was disarmed, the catch was pulled and the door opened, revealing steep stone stairs illuminated by the dying light of a lantern, the flame sputtering to black as the breeze generated by the door reached it. Brineigh descended the steep stairs beyond, dimmed her spell wisp with a flick of the wrist, and strode rapidly into the unknown.

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><p><em>AN: Thanks so much for reading and making it to the end of the chapter! I'm really, really new at at the whole 'creative writing' thing, I think the last time I wrote a story was early in grade school...far too long ago!...so I'd love your your comments, etc.! Anything to get better, right? :D_


	2. Healer

Brineigh crept cautiously through the rocky underground passage. She may have succumb to curious impulsivity but she wasn't stupid… _well, most of the time,_ she amended in her mind; there had, after all, been that occasion years ago when it seemed like a really good idea to try out her favourite lightning spell while swimming.

She did realized the distinct possibility that whoever smuggled lyrium to the Templars might still be in the dank, cavernous passageway, despite the time it took her to find the blasted trapdoor. But, up and down the rickety staircases and through the rough-hewn doorways along her route, Brineigh did not encountered a single soul.

Her path ended abruptly, stone walls closed together and a ladder extended upwards towards a small hatch in the ceiling, slightly illuminated through cracks around the edges of the wood. Brineigh drew in a hesitant breath. She was really going to do this. The thought provoked elation and trepidation in equal measure.

By the fourth rung of the ladder Brineigh dimmed her small wisp to almost nothing. _No need to let them know I'm coming_. She had a horrific, brief vision of whatever lay on the other side of the hatch; Ser Nickoll and his blade, the Knight-Commander with her golden helm, their faces illuminated by the eerie light streaming upward from cracks in the floor while lying in wait to spring their trap. A puerile, nightmarish idea, but the thought of being discovered on the other side gave her a moment's pause.

When she reached the top of the ladder she place her eye to a knothole in the wood. She could see nothing, hear nothing. Aside from the woody, earthy smell of the planks, it stunk like dirt and rubbish and urine. It was several minutes before her fingers grew confidant and pushed hesitantly upwards on the wood, the hatch sighing open with a quiet rasp.

It was…_not what I expected_. Brineigh's eyes darted around, taking in the shadowy, rundown vision of her surroundings. She pulled herself out of the hatch, wisp perched daintily above her shoulder, onto a platform that was little more than a wide balcony, a pair of stairs in front of her, one set leading up, another down. The immediate area was abandoned, the faint light Brineigh had seen through gaps in the planks originated from below the platform, little more than the flickering glow of a poorly lit fire, the dim light barely bright enough to illuminate the immediate area. Muttered voices drifted upwards, accompanying the crackling of the low blaze. Brineigh lowered the hatch as quietly as she could, jumping out of her skin when the wooden flap settled in place with a soft but creaking ache.

Down was not an option, she had no desire to see the source of the quiet, muffled conversation, so Brineigh went up. The wooden stairs groaned under her gentle footfalls, but, much to her anxious relief, no alarm was raised from the murmuring voices below the platform. She slunk into a narrow passageway after ascending the stairs, a second flickering fire beckoning at the end of a long hall. Pressing herself quietly into the wall at the end of the hall, she peered out from the edge of the rough-cut passage, her fingers tightly gripping a scaffold frame, the wooden structure creating a makeshift doorway separating the hall from a small room beyond containing an abandoned, but lit, campfire and small tent set beside it. Brineigh kept close to the walls of the room as she stealthily ghosted by, continuing her exploration into the unknown.

She hardly knew where was she going. She was, in spite of her spontaneous and desperately confident escape, hopelessly lost. Being outside of the Gallows was electrifying, Brineigh revelled in the knowledge that she had come this far; but she was still underground and her knowledge of Kirkwall was confined to the street plan observed from the high windows in the Tower. She longed for the sight of ripples as she pulled her fingers through salty waves, the resistance of the water against her ankles as she strode in the lapping brine, something familiar from her past experience outside the Gallows to inspire her progress in her current surroundings. This dirty, smelly place, filled with refuse and dust and worse, may be out of the Tower, but it was certainly not the freedom she imagined, the reprieve she craved. But people lived down here, the tent she passed had been evidence of that, and she could smell a faint waft of salt air as she moved forward. There had to be a way out.

She reflected later that her first mistake had been to not extinguish her spell wisp. Glowing balls of light tended to attract attention even inside the Gallows, outside of the Circle, they were certain to be rare accessories indeed. Her second mistake, she decided afterwards to forgive herself for; it came as more of a consequence of her lifestyle than any controllable error. Up until that afternoon, she had been an apprentice in the Gallows, her only possessions were several sets of ordinary robes and a standard issue apprentice staff. No one ever wanted her things; everyone had always had their own. Her experience with concepts like 'theft' and 'stealing' extended to pilfering extra quills and parchment from the Tranquil in the stockroom or perhaps copying the occasional answer from an oblivious apprentice studying beside her. Nothing could have prepared her for the blight on Kirkwall that was the Coterie gangs.

"Hello sweet thing." A lithe, blonde haired woman swept out of the dim, ambient firelight of the slum, inserting herself into Brineigh's path. "And where would a darling girl like you be heading in a place like this?"

"Uhhh…" Brineigh took in the woman, her drawn daggers and sneering expression all at once. _This_, she decided firmly, _is not good. _ She crouched stock-still, mind racing, hands instinctively groping behind her back to grasp for the staff that had been left propped against her bed that very morning.

A stocky man, club in hand, materialized behind the blonde woman, his jeering face thrown in stark relief by her spellwisp. "Well," his leering expression spoke volumes. The man's eyes briefly left their errant wandering over Brineigh's robe to gaze lecherously at her upturned face, calling into the shadows behind him, "What do ya think Dirk? At least a silver for a robe like that, not to mention a couple sovereigns for the woman under it." Brineigh's hands flew from behind her back, abruptly raising a palm to her mouth, covering her shocked expression.

_This is really not good_.

The woman whistled. "Maker, have you ever seen such a ring?" Brineigh's upstretched fingers tore to her side, fists pressing into the folds of her robes, covering the silverite band given to her by Senior Enchanter Constance, a ring to improve her concentration the woman had said. _Blessed Andraste, if only I could concentrate now_! If only she could think and push aside her whirling thoughts, if only she could figure a way _out_ of this mess.

"Never outside of Hightown and that's the truth of it." the stocky man responded, eyes once again resuming their roving gaze.

"You idiots," a second man, apparently the aforementioned Dirk, appeared behind the others. "She's an apostate, an escaped mage. Can't you see those robes are from the Circle? Are you both so daft and blind?" He continued in exasperation as his hands pointedly gesticulated at her spellwisp. "Women like her, especially those followed around by glowing globes don't come to Darktown by choice. You should have left her alone like I told you."

A third man, this one with large, corded arms and holding a very large battle-axe, approached Brineigh from behind as she pivoted her body to assess the new threat, his clomping steps alerting her to his presence before he spoke. "I dunno Dirk, I mean, don't Templars offer a reward for information about mages escaping the Tower. Think of how grateful they'd be if we actually went about turning one _in_." This was of course, the worst thing that could possibly happen. No one was supposed to know she was missing. Visions of confinement, possible punishment and worse, flashed through Brineigh's already chaotically rolling mind. She inwardly cursed her curiosity, her impulsivity, why did she never think of the consequences of her actions.

Two more men appeared out of the dark to stand beside the giant with the oversized axe, she heard footsteps add to the ranks at her back. Her already tense body went rigid as the voice of man named Dirk replied from behind, apparently buoyed by the addition to their ranks, "You know, I think you're actually right. The Templars _would_ be mighty grateful indeed." She could palatably feel the narrowed eyes of the man appraised her form. "Poor gal looks exhausted too. What a shame. "

Brineigh quickly reflected that she _did_ feel exhausted. After all, her afternoon had been spent in desperate battle against a demon, the survival of a mortal wound and exhaustive reflection. To round it out, she had attempted a rash escape from the Gallows. The events had compounded into bone-weary fatigue at exactly the wrong moment, her adrenaline drained during her tense exploration through the smuggler's tunnels and beyond.

"We should really take her back home to get a good night's rest, don't cha think. Declan if you'd be so kind…" The man with the overly large battle-axe took a step closer to Brineigh, slowly lifting his arm to reach a gigantic hand towards her shoulder.

"Oh fie, Dirk." The blonde woman pouted, Brineigh swung around in time to see the woman's plump lips pressed tight together, "I wanted to play with her first. I've never been allowed to try for a _mage_ before." The woman appraised the weary magic-user momentarily before something flashed in her eye and she _lunged_, dual daggers directed at Brineigh's stomach.

Instinctively, arcs of lightning shot from Brineigh's fingertips, dropping the woman to the floor but not before the daggers found their mark. Pain spiked through her body, she unconsciously curled over in throbbing agony, a loud wail escaping her lips. The battle-axe wielding giant, reaching for Brineigh from behind, missed her shoulder and stumbled forward over her bowed form, tipping headfirst as he was thrown off balance.

The man named Dirk, obviously surprised by the sudden attack of his cohort, shrieked at his companions, "You fools! Don't bait the mage!" as Brineigh willed herself to look up and to the side, remotely observing that the men who had stood with the giant were approaching from behind, creeping closer, weapons drawn. Her shaking fingers traced a wobbling paralysis rune. She tossed the spell behind her, a weak attempt to stall the men, one of whom was currently lifting his blade in attempt to cleave her spine in two. A few muttered words and her body was encased in a thin husk of rock, just in time to deflect a downward swinging axe to her side. But _oh Maker, rock is_ _**heavy**_, Brineigh slumped under the weight of the stone, the massive burden making her oblivious to her surroundings, feeling nothing but the bulk of the rock and the pain in her stomach.

A flash of heat, the smell of scorched flesh, whirled by Brineigh, blackening the stone she was encased in. The fireball exploded behind her, crashing through the men still held in thrall by her glowing green rune. Her stone skin froze, caught in a layer of ice, freezing the men in front of her and turning the ground around her into a jagged collection of frosty stalagmites. A succession of bright white bolts hit the entrapped men, illuminating the dark passageway Brineigh had been assaulted in and shattering their frost-coated bodies; their unconscious forms sank to lie broken on the ground, joining the blonde woman and axe-wielding giant whose clumsy fall had knocked him comatose. The last of her assailants was dispatched with a second fireball, the flaming sphere catching the man named Dirk full in the chest, pitching him against a distant wall and melting the ice from Brineigh's stone skin.

Brineigh's thin layer of rock armour dissolved, her dim spell wisp blinked out. Her body's energy was spent, her mana depleted, the pain in her gut unbearable. She heard hurried footsteps approach.

An anxious face, framed by dirty-blonde hair half pinned in a loose ponytail, hovered above her stooped form. "I heard a scream," was the explanation; confusion had bloomed in the eyes of the man, "but you're a…you're a mage?"

"I…I, uhh,". Words were too much, Brineigh's body collapsed to the floor. The man followed her to the ground, kneeling beside her, cradling her head in his lap. The air shimmered blue and healing magic swept over her form for the second time of the day. The magic soothed her. She felt the bleeding stop, the twin holes in her stomach knitting together. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice cracking with fatigue.

Liquid amber eyes took in Brineigh's form. Calloused hands gently stroked the puckered, angry flesh of her wounded stomach through the ripped holes in her robe. "They should heal cleanly."

Sudden concern etched the man's face as his eyes roved to her neck, his hands pushing away the fabric of her collar to reveal the new, pink tissue below. All but forgotten in the heat of the past moments, since in the hours spent in the deep cellars of the Gallows, was the fact that she had not changed her robes since fleeing the Harrowing Chamber. The ghost of a blade, the soiled fabric marred by her blood...

_Oh_.

"Who did this to you?" the man asked in a tight, clipped voice, intense molten eyes demanding an answer.

Words stuck in her throat, her lips moved as if mud. "T…Templar," was the most that could be managed. "H…Harrowing," she added in a conspiratorial attempt to explain.

"Those bastards!" snarled the man, eyebrows furrowing together in a furious scowl. Brineigh thought she witnessed his amber eyes flash to blue but she was too drained to be of what she saw. It was all too much, the blood loss, the fatigue, Brineigh's body gave up on her; her eyes closed as she lost consciousness. Her final feeling before falling comatose was the sense of strong arms gathering her up, lifting her, pressing her tightly to a warm chest.

* * *

><p>Consciousness crept over Brineigh in stages. Her sense of touch came back first. Rough canvas rubbed harsh against the back of her neck; soft, thread-barren wool brushed the tip of her chin; her hands dangled in the air, her wrists resting against a solid, smooth surface. Wherever she was it smelled like…nothing; clean, sterile, unexpected.<p>

Grey eyes slit open. The dark purple of a pre-dawn sky spilt through high windows above her as Brineigh tried to shift her vision, attempting to take in her surroundings. The sound of soft breathing turned her head towards a rock wall. She drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the man dozing on a crude chair beside her; alarm overtook her as the chaotic events of the previous day seeped to the forefront of her mind.

Her harsh intake of air woke the man, his dazed eyes rapidly blinked away sleep as Brineigh struggled lift herself from her prone position on the rough cot. Gentle fingers pressed her back down. "Wait here," quietly implored his drowsy voice. The mage, her saviour from the violence of the day before, unfolded himself from the chair, stretching cat-like as he walked to the far side of the room.

Vials clinked as Brineigh fretfully lay herself back down, head turned to the side, away from the wall. She registered several motionless forms on coarse canvas beds, much like her own, arranged in rows beside her. Yesterday had been apparently her lucky day. Somehow, from the repugnant slum she had collapsed in, she had been moved to a kind of infirmary, arranged differently from the one she was familiar with in the Gallows, poorer certainly, but recognizable all the same.

The man returned, handing her a vessel of red liquid, "Drink this, it will help with your injuries."

Brineigh raised the container to her mouth without protest, the familiar smell of crushed elfroot wafting from the vial a welcome relief in the foreign surroundings. She downed the tonic in a single gulp and braced herself up on her elbows, feeling immediate strength as the potion coursed down her throat.

"Now," the man seated himself back on the chair, stifling a yawn, hands rubbing over his eyes, brushing away the last vestiges of sleep, "I think you better tell me how someone like you comes to collapse in the slums of Kirkwall. It's not often now I see my fellows and you are certainly the first one I've had to rescue in a long while."

Brineigh lifted her eyes to the windows, buying time before giving into hesitant speech. The colour of the light caught her eye. _Oh…drat_. The expletive was not strong enough. The deep purple of pre-dawn was giving way rich, dark blue sky. The Gallows would be waking soon; she had less than an hour before the sun rose in a blaze of orange and red glory, summoning magi and Templars alike from their beds. She was sure her panic showed on her face, but how could she flee when she owed this man her life, when she did not even know where she was? She again, inwardly cursed her impulsivity of yesterday. But, she reflected cynically, her escape certainly had distracted her from the dark thoughts of the previous afternoon and in the end, had led her to this man. She bit back a cutting laugh at the thought that perhaps the Maker did work in the mysterious ways the Sisters always claimed.

"Thank you," she started, hanging her head, her mocking thoughts not reflected in her tone, "I…I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there to...to aid me. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to say that yesterday."

The man shrugged, "It's just lucky you've got a good set of lungs on you." He smiled, lines creasing the corners of his amber eyes, "I think you managed to rouse half of Darktown with that shout."

"But if you hadn't been there," she motioned at her stomach with a quick flick of her wrist, "If you hadn't been there to…to…" her sentence trailed off as she glanced to the side, unwilling to mention his spell with the dark shadows arrayed on cots beside her. Did this man help the others as he had helped her? Did he risk exposure as a mage for all of these people? She would not open her mouth and bring harm to him if he did not. Even apprentices, their movement restricted to the Tower, knew the rumours of how distrusted and feared magi were outside of the Circle.

The man observed her gaze, guessing at her thoughts. "My magic has helped them as much as it has helped you, we can talk of it here. My clinic is as safe as any place in Kirkwall, I would imagine. You need not fear betrayal to the Templars by my hand or any other in this room." He tipped his chair forward, closer to Brineigh's cot, the hint of a smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes, "At least, any more than I do. Now, please, I believe you owe me something of an explanation."

Brineigh scooted herself into a sitting position beneath the cozy blanket, her hands once again reaching for her ankles. The quick jolt of movement brought a slight pain to her stomach and left her feeling lightheaded, but only for an instant. The man's magic and elfroot concoction had patched her up better than she could have ever expected. Who could have thought she would avoid death twice in one day.

Her story did not take long to tell; it had after all, taken place over little more than a single, chaotic afternoon. She chose to withhold certain information, interweaving small lies with the truth. The man had saved her, had healed her, but she did not know him, could not trust him so quickly, especially with information about the smuggler's tunnels, her way back to the Tower. She whispered an internal prayer to the Maker, hoping her small fabrications would go unnoticed.

The mage's eyebrows pinched together by the time Brineigh finished her tale, deep lines of concentration furrowing his brow. Several seconds elapsed before he spoke. "Well, now that you're out of the Gallows, what is it that do you intend to do? I'd offer you sanctuary but unfortunately I'm already enough of a threat to these refugees as it is," the last was intoned with a sweep of his hand about the room. The dark forms on the rough cots had yet to stir at the sound of their voices.

She didn't need to think of the answer. She had never thought there might be a choice. Her impulsive decision to leave the Gallows had always been made with the caveat that she would return. Whatever her new feelings about the Templars, the grey worldview that had replaced the binary, childhood construction of black and white, the idea that she could leave her home had never really occurred to her.

"I'll go back." The response was said quickly, without a hint of hesitation in her voice. If she had suddenly started spouting lightning bolts from her ears the man could not have looked more shocked. She continued in an attempt to explain, "The sun hasn't risen yet. I can still make it back before I'm missed." From the bewildered expression he wore, her justification was clearly an inadequate reply.

"But," he sputtered, "You want to go back? You've escaped the Gallows! The Templars! After what they've done to you, what possible reason could you have return?" Blanket-wrapped forms stirred around them at the sound of the man's raised voice. His molten eyes flashed with scepticism, incredulity framing his features.

"I've just become a mage! I never intended for _this_ to happen," she retorted angrily, jilted and caught off guard by his abrupt response, her quick words spoken without thought. His blatant disbelief irked her in a way she had not expected. Who was he to judge her? And there was no mistaking his tone; he thought her response ludicrous.

Brineigh continued, quiet accent forgotten in her quick ire, "I have no intension of being labelled an apost…" _apostate_. Because that was of course, what this man was.

She took in a steadying breath as she began again, trying to keep her voice to a tight whisper, noting the figures shifting around them. She reined her anger in, attempting to put some thought to her words. Had she misunderstood him? Did he think she meant to flee the Tower? Of course he did, she belatedly realized, what other reason would a mage have for gallivanting outside the Circle Tower; she didn't think curious 'exploring' would be the explanation most magic-users would come up with. Her outburst suddenly seemed ungenerous.

"Where would you have me go, what would you have me do? Even with everything that's happened, the Gallows is still my home."

His indignant eyes regarded her coldly, "Anywhere, anything!" was the quick response, "Do you know how many mages would die to be given the chance you have now?" The man's face pulled into a tight grimace.

She supposed she did. There had been those among the apprentices and mages whose jokes about their Templar jailers had been told in earnest.

"But, you don't understand, they have my phylactery…how far do you think I could run before someone caught me, dragged me back to the Circle or had me killed? Would you have me punished? Would you have me locked away?" Brineigh shook her head, throwing out arguments automatically. "No, I couldn't live like that."

The sentiments she expressed were mostly true. She didn't know how to convince the man so she invoked the imagery that scared her the most. She shirked at the thought of the Templars, of being _hunted_ by them. But the truth was, she had never really considered running before; the thought of freedom was too foreign to her reality.

Her thoughts and words rambled on. His expression remained unchanged, a dark scowl and pinched eyebrows marring the otherwise striking face.

"Besides, I don't know the first thing about the world outside of the Circle Tower," she continued, a last ditch effort to erase the disgust from his features, "I don't think I'd survive very long." Her posture straightened on the cot as she gripped at the blanket over her stomach, hoping that the gesture would spark a memory of her desperate situation from the evening before, of how ill-equipped she was to manage with life outside the Gallows. The events of the past evening in the slums the mage had named as 'Darktown', had done little to reassure her about her sheltered life so far.

The mage looked about to retort to the contrary, but she cut him off and bowed her head, giving up the futile, one-sided fight. She may be impulsive, the curious spontaneity of her escape the day before a norm in her life, but she was always firm when resolved. "You don't know what you ask, I appreciate your help yesterday, but this…" she gave her head a second shake, firmer than the first, "I just…I just _can't_."

It was difficult to meet his eyes; she felt his abhorrence at her decision as a tangible thing. Brineigh ran a hand across the raven-black stubble of her hair. Her steely eyes were grave as she looked at him, changing the subject as quickly as she could. She did not want to argue with the man who had saved her, who had healed her. He deserved better than that.

"Those men, the woman from last night, what happened to them?"

"Coterie," he said, aversion with her still evident in his voice, "A thieves guild. A few died, the others ran back to their bolthole to lick their wounds. You made yourself easy enough prey. Though, I doubt they'd bother you again after their scare last night. For the immediate future anyhow."

"D…died?" Brineigh's voice shook; she looked at her hands as if they had betrayed her, the trace of her lightning spell a phantom on her fingertips.

The man's harsh countenance broke; his repugnance at her willingness to return to the Circle was momentarily put aside, his strained expression disappeared, replaced by one of compassion. He placed a light hand on her shoulder. "They would have killed you for the sake of a sullied robe. They came close too; with all of you'd been through, you had lost a lot of blood. You were only defending yourself, don't despise yourself over their loss."

"But…they were only going to take me back to the Gallows before that woman attacked." She mumbled thoughtlessly. "And now they're dead..."

"Yet, now you would return willingly." The pinched expression returned to the man's face, but he wiped it away with an exasperated sigh, pressing his hands to the corner of his eyes, obviously intent to start their fruitless argument anew.

A muffled moan timely sobbed forth from the front of the room, near the two doors faintly visible in the gloom. The mage turned from Brineigh, abruptly cutting their awkward conversation short and rapidly unfolding himself from his rough perch to stride over to the whimpering sound. Brineigh twisted herself from her seated position on the cot, swinging her legs over the side, standing slowly to ensure she was steady on her feet. Her robes felt stiff on her skin. Brineigh glanced downwards, observing the gory, ripped fabric at her stomach, feeling the blood-starched fabric at her throat with a raised hand. She was sure she made a positively grisly sight. How she was going to navigate her way back to the Gallows without being overseen was a mystery to her. Her appearance would certainly make her memorable to any who saw her.

Brineigh walked over to the man who now knelt before the cot where the groans had started, whispering hushed words to the woman underneath the blanket, blue orbs of healing magic extending from his raised palms. The spell worked within minutes. The woman breathed a deep sigh and sank back into fitful slumber as the mage rocked back on his heels to stand with Brineigh.

Quiet signs of stirring arose from the other side of the room. The light from the high windows continued to brighten. Brineigh inhaled a deep breath; she needed to go.

Brineigh broke the uneasy silence between the two mages, fully intending to take her leave of the man and his clinic. She gripped one of his hands, pressing it tight between hers. "Thank you…uhh…" her brow crinkled, she did not know his name. It was certainly embarrassing, she felt a blush rise to her cheeks, but she continued despite her pause, attempting to cover her blunder and express her gratitude for his rescue, "For everything, I…" she shook her head, unable to continue. In the end, the words were too little to articulate what she felt. She let her hands drop his as she pushed their earlier conversation from her mind; she did not want their argument to be her final thoughts of the man.

"Anders," the mage supplied with a wry smile.

"Brineigh," she replied with a quiet, tinkling laugh, realizing she had not given her name before. It was slightly ridiculous that the man knew her history without knowing the most basic fact about her. She stole another glance at the high windows. Royal blue sky had lightened to deep red. "If there is anything I can do. I….well…I'm not sure how much help I'd be, but you'd just have to ask."

It was an impossible promise she knew, but what else could she do? She had never owed someone so much before, even Orsino had hesitated during her Harrowing, busy in his argument with the Knight-Commander, he had let her come to harm. She admired this man, Anders, and his actions. He had acted selflessly, risking exposure of his clandestine magic and injury on her behalf, to come to the rescue someone he did not know.

Anders, shook his head briefly then stopped, cocking it to the side, amber eyes again meeting grey. "Are you truly serious about returning to the tower," Brineigh nodded her assent as he paused. "In that case," the mage continued, looking at her quizzically, "Perhaps there _is_ a favour you could do for me."

"Anything," she breathed.

"Anything?" His features took on an amused expression, "Be careful of what you offer. You may not like what I have in mind. " Brineigh squirmed as the corners of his mouth rose at her discomfort, quickly covered by a hand stifling a tired yawn. "Maybe not anything after all then. The time was, I'd think of something suitably clever to say to that, but it's far to early this morning." He continued in a low, serious tone, "There is a man at the Gallows, a Ferelden named Karl Thekla, do you know of him?"

Faces and names swirled through Brineigh's mind, finally settling on a man with a greying beard and a strong face with piercing blue eyes. She nodded again, she did not know the man well, the enchanter had arrived relatively recently to help mentor the apprentices, but she could pick him out from the hundreds of faces at the Circle Tower if need be.

"Good," Anders strode to a cramped table, grabbing a piece of parchment and quill as Brineigh followed him. He scribbled a brief note, folded it up, and placed it into Brineigh's hand. "See that he gets this before the day after tomorrow." Soft groaning again came from the cot by the door. Anders quickly turned to the sound before shifting his gaze back to Brineigh. "Are you able to find your way back to the Gallows if I showed you where you were attacked last night? I'm afraid I cannot be away long. The chokedamp seems to be getting the best of her." There was no question as to whom he was referring to, the poor woman by the door was writhing in unconscious agony, the healing magic cast before apparently not enough to give relief from her ailment.

Brineigh was almost sure she could retrace her steps from the previous evening; mostly, she was itching to _go_. "Maybe," she shrugged her shoulders, "Probably, yes." Both mages spared a quick glance at the woman near the doors, her sleep wracked with quiet moans, as they hurried out.

The dried pools of blood and scorched earth at the dim battle site gave Brineigh a moments pause but Anders quickly lifted her chin in his hand, turning her away from the gory vision to meet his compassionate eyes. "This is as far as I can led you. I must get back. Are you sure you won't change your mind? Your chance for freedom may only come once." He turned his head and dropped his hand, when she whispered a quiet no. His fingers had left Brineigh's skin warm and slightly flushed.

Amber eyes darted back the way they had come, mind focused elsewhere, giving up his urging with a brief, unhappy frown. "Are you sure you can find your way from here?"

The passage behind his shoulder looked familiar so Brineigh bobbed her head, yes.

"Thank you again, Anders. For everything." There was little more she could say; the dark passageway was beginning to lighten, the day about to start. She reached for his hand again, squeezing it tight in wordless appreciation. The touch made her slightly breathless as she looked up at him, taking in the scruffy stubble, the short pieces of dirty-blonde hair falling from his dishevelled ponytail. The man was certainly attractive, even unkempt as he was.

"Of course." He replied. "You know, I never actually thought I'd help a mage _return_ to the Tower." Brineigh dropped his hand as he stared at her intensely. "If you ever come to realize the Templars are the dogs that they are," he brushed a single finger over the scabbed pink flesh at her neck, "I can help you, I can help you adjust to life outside the Gallows. You would only have to ask."

With a final glace and a quick goodbye, the mage turned on his heels, striding rapidly away from Brineigh. She watched him for an instant before starting out on her own, returning through the gradually lightening passageways to the smuggler's tunnels that would take her back to the Gallows.


End file.
